Scrutiny
by tastewithouttalent
Summary: "'Seriously,' Yuujirou slurs from where his head has ended up somewhere against the support of Akira's shoulder. 'You're...you're a good friend, you know, Hattori.' Akira laughs. 'You know I'm not going to believe anything you say when you've had this much to drink.'" Yuujirou gets tipsy and Akira gets him home.


"Seriously," Yuujirou slurs from where his head has ended up against the support of Akira's shoulder. "You're...you're a good friend, you know, Hattori."

Akira laughs. "You know I'm not going to believe anything you say when you've had this much to drink."

"It's not about the _alcohol_ ," Yuujirou tells him, lifting his head with some monumental force of will and the push of the arm he currently has draped around Akira's shoulders. Akira is fairly sure that's the only thing keeping the other man upright, if the unsteady stumble of his footsteps is any indication. "And 'm not that drunk anyway."

"Yes you are," Akira says, hearing gentle amusement rumbling under his voice. "I'm going to get a taxi to take you home. Do you want me to make sure you get there safely?"

"I can get myself to my own _home_ ," Yuujirou insists. His arm slides around Akira's shoulders, comes up to weight heavy against the other's neck; it's only him grabbing at a handful of Akira's shirt and Akira tensing his hold around Yuujirou's waist that keeps him from sliding to collapse to the sidewalk completely. "Anyway. You're not listening. I'm...I'm trying to _compliment_ you."

"Yeah, okay," Akira soothes. "I'm listening."

"Good." Yuujirou's hold pulls hard at Akira's shirt again, exerting enough force to drag the fabric sideways against the other's shoulder. "What I'm _saying_ is. Is."

"That I'm a good friend?" Akira suggests.

"Yes," Yuujirou agrees. "That. A good friend. It's good to work with you."

"Thank you," Akira says. "It's always a pleasure to work with you too."

"Yeah." Yuujirou goes quiet for a moment. Akira can hear the shuffle of their joint footfalls, his own forming a clear rhythm with Yuujirou's dragging a counterpoint underneath. Akira can still feel Yuujirou's fingers tight against his shirt, can feel the tension along the other's arm speaking to the strain of something left unsaid; so he stays quiet, even if he has no idea what it is Yuujirou is so determined to say, and lets the sound of their footsteps serve as the canvas against which Yuujirou can pull his intoxicated thoughts to clarity.

Finally Yuujirou takes a breath, deep and deliberate like he's bracing himself for some dramatic statement. "Hattori-"

Akira feels him trip more than he sees it. The scuff of the other's footfalls stops abruptly as the toe of his shoe catches at a crack in the sidewalk, their forward motion stalls as Yuujirou starts to topple forward; it's only Akira stopping in time that saves them both from a precipitous fall to the sidewalk, and even then there's a moment of uncertainty while Yuujirou wobbles on unsteady footing. Akira can feel him stumble forward, can all but see the other's balance swinging wide and desperate, and when he tightens his hold on Yuujirou's waist it's by reflex rather than intent. Yuujirou's footing skids, his arm swings wide, and between Akira's hold on him and the desperate way he throws himself sideways he ends up stumbling into the other's chest instead of falling facefirst to the sidewalk. His free hand closes hard at Akira's shirtfront, his weight lands against the other's support, and Akira takes a step backwards to brace them both as he reaches out to catch Yuujirou with his other arm as well. It's a moment before he trusts that the crisis is over, another before he can find his voice around the rush of adrenaline that came with the temporary panic, and then he laughs, a low rumble of amusement that comes easy before Yuujirou has yet eased his hold on him.

"Careful there," he says, the words coming just against the pale tangle of Yuujirou's hair. "Let me get you home and we'll pick this conversation up next time."

Akira is expecting Yuujirou to let him go, to extricate himself with the heavy deliberation of intoxication so they can steer him to lean against a wall while Akira calls a taxi. But Yuujirou is still off-balance, or maybe still caught in that immediate flush of panic; Akira can hear the other breathing hard against his shoulder, can feel the heat of his exhales even through the fabric of his shirt. The hand at his shoulder tightens, pulling against him for a moment; it's not until Yuujirou shifts his other hand that Akira realizes it's slipped from around his shoulders, that the other's fingers have caught against the back of his neck at the soft-short dark of his hair.

"Hattori," Yuujirou says against his shirt, and there's a strange sound under his voice, a determination Akira has only heard from him before on a handful of occasions. It makes Akira's breathing catch on some surge of adrenaline he wasn't expecting, makes the arm he has caught around Yuujirou tighten as if his own balance has suddenly become suspect; he feels a little like it has, as if Yuujirou's words against his shoulder have left him as heat-dizzy as the weight of too much midday sunshine.

Akira takes a breath, feels the way it sticks oddly in his chest. "Yuujirou?"

Yuujirou tightens his hand at Akira's shoulder and lifts his head from the other's shirt. His cheeks are flushed to red, his mouth damp and lips parted; his gaze is hazy with intoxication, his lashes shifting slow with deliberate intent, but when he looks at Akira there's something certain behind his eyes, some shadow of resolve that has nothing to do with the flickering heat of alcohol that is so staining his cheeks and lips. He holds Akira's gaze for a long moment, while time goes strange and slow around them; and then his fingers shift, his hand slides up to catch against the back of Akira's head, and he's leaning in to press his mouth to the other's without a flicker of hesitation.

Akira goes still. His eyes are still open, his arm still bracing Yuujirou against him; he can feel the curve of the other's body as he leans in closer, can feel the shift of the touch at his hair sliding up to settle against the back of his head. Yuujirou's mouth is warm against the cool of the dark air, his lips damp and softer than Akira would have ever guessed them to be; and then he makes a noise in the back of his throat, some tiny whimper of heat and surrender tangled inextricably together, and Akira's eyes close of their own volition as his hand slides up to hold Yuujirou closer against him. His head is echoing itself to shocked silence, his heart is pounding harder with disbelief in his chest; but Yuujirou's fingers are dragging into his hair, and Yuujirou is whining incoherent appreciation against his lips, and then he opens his mouth and Akira responds in kind to make an invitation of his parted lips before he can regain composure enough to think through the action. Yuujirou licks into his mouth without hesitating, his hands tightening as if he thinks Akira is going to pull away, and he tastes bright like alcohol and sweet like the sake he's been drinking and Akira can feel Yuujirou's flush catching to his own skin, can feel it purring down his spine and lacing over the rhythm of his heartbeat until his breathing is unravelling itself, until his heart is thudding itself to audibility against the inside of his chest. Yuujirou is melting against him, arching as close as he can get so the whole of his balance is trusted to Akira's arm around him, and Akira is going dizzy with the taste of Yuujirou's mouth and with the rush of his own scattered breathing and it's then that he pulls away with a gasp to fill his lungs with the bracing cold of the air.

"We," he starts, and his voice is lower than it usually is, he almost doesn't recognize the sound of it in his throat. "We can't do this here."

"Hattori," Yuujirou purrs in that same slurred-over heat, and his gaze is pinned to Akira's mouth and his fingers are still in Akira's hair and he looks dreamy, looks hot and smoky and more sultry than Akira ever suspected he could. "You taste so _good_."

"Ah," Akira stutters, and Yuujirou is coming back in, his lashes dipping to haze over his gaze as his hands tighten in Akira's hair again. "We _can't_ " and he has to pull back, has to brace a hand at Yuujirou's shoulder and push him away by inches to keep from losing himself to the heat of the other's mouth again. Yuujirou stumbles backwards, his eyes fluttering open again while he whimpers over a plaintive note of confused displeasure, and for just a minute Akira can feel that one sound run straight through him like electricity, as if Yuujirou deliberately structured the sound of his voice to undo the self-restraint Akira hasn't even been deliberately trying to maintain, that he hasn't _needed_ to deliberately maintain before now. Yuujirou's gaze drifts up, skimming over Akira's mouth before refocusing on his eyes, and Akira has to swallow hard to find the voice to keep speaking at all.

"Not here," he repeats, mitigating the immediacy of his rejection with the uncertainty of the future. Yuujirou stares at him for a moment, the shadow of bruised feelings still behind his eyes; then his lashes shift, the strain in his expression goes slack with understanding, and his mouth falls into an soft _O_ of epiphany just as Akira clears his throat with rough desperation. "We're in public."

Yuujirou's head turns, his attention skipping from Akira's face to glance around them like he hadn't noticed the truth of this before. The street is empty, Akira is relieved to note; but Yuujirou is still clinging to him, his expression soft and hazy on the weight of desire, and even the flush of intoxication across the other's cheeks will only go so far in making excuses for them if someone should appear.

"Let me-" Akira starts, and then his voices cracks into silence, his breathing catching against the weight of what he's about to say. Yuujirou looks back at him, his eyes wide with intent focus, and Akira exhales in a rush as his arm tightens involuntarily around Yuujirou's waist. "Let me get you home."

"Home?" Yuujirou says, slow like he's turning the sound of the word over in his head.

Akira swallows. "Yeah."

Yuujirou tips his chin down to look up at Akira through the dark of his lashes. "Home's not public."

Akira's chest is tight. "No," he says, and lets his hand slide sideways against Yuujirou's shoulder until he can lift two fingers to brush against the soft of the other's hair tangling just over his collar. "It's not."

Yuujirou blinks again. "Okay," he says, and lets his hold on Akira's neck go with a dragging slide of his hands down the other's chest that is far more deliberate and extended than it really needs to be. "Take me home, then."

Akira doesn't ask for clarification if it's his home or Yuujirou's the other means. Given how dark Yuujirou's gaze is and how hard his own heart is beating, he doesn't think it makes much of a difference to either of them which locked door they end up behind.


End file.
